Gotham's Heroes
by btBatt
Summary: A series of one-shots for the Batfam, not much needed in terms of summarizing: length will vary as well as content. Rated t for language (thanks, Jason) and some bloody possibility.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This turned out kinda long. It's really late, I have Trig first thing in the morning, and I didn't review as much as I maybe should have. Lengths will vary greatly for the one-shots contained in this 'story,' which will also range on the spectrum from fluffy to angsty to complete OOC-y. I'm just going to say that for my purposes, Jason will be one…relatively good terms with most of the Batfam. I can't think of anything more to say at the moment, except goodnight. Goodnight, and please review! Again, if it sucks, I'm sorry, but I thought it was kind of cute ^_^**

**/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/**

Tim's sitting in front of his laptop in his so-big-it-echoes penthouse, wishing he had the Batcave's endless holographic monitor to the compact notebook in front of him. For one, his brain is starting to throb in tandem with his numb rear end from the flashing of file after file on the screen, where the Cave's computer would have had no trouble with the expansive list of content; secondly, Tim's pretty sure that Steph's cellphone had more memory than this—this _thing._

The 'cover' of the notebook slaps down with a satisfying _whack,_ and while the Penguin's new head-hunting mercenary is important—really, Tim considers it a top priority, he _swears _he does—his head doesn't seem to be processing and filing information as readily as per his norm. It's nothing to do with him, he knows, he simply needs a more efficient, less cluttered medium for finding data. But he's been in this new residency not yet a week, and he's either been patrolling or transporting his belongings every night, sleeping most of the day or taking care of Teen Titan business since _not everyone's nocturnal._

Whilst posting a mental note to get the computer schematics from Bruce, he sets down the computer so that the ninety-degree angle lines up with identical corner of the coffee table and pads on heavy, bare feet to the kitchen. It takes most of his remaining willpower to resist the call of his coffeemaker—he should really be sleeping. Sleep is necessary, and maybe his head wouldn't hurt so much. But…

This case file was not going to sort itself out. Maybe just another hour or two, then he could catch a couple hours of shuteye before his rendezvous with Bruce.

Next thing he knows, Tim's inserting a filter and reaching for the decaf he keeps on hand, for such a situation. He thinks that he can maybe he can trick his brain into thinking it's caffeine—though he knows otherwise. But it'll still taste good, so he's halfway through his immaculate (nearly religious) measuring of the grounds before the flashing of his phone flashing it's alarmed light a few feet away.

He ignores it only long enough to finish the perfect preparation of his faux caffeine fix before picking it up. The top bar reads 'Dick Grayson' and underneath is a little blue speech bubble.

_you moved. again._

Whoops. So Tim hadn't exactly sent out a memo, he didn't feel bad about it. He'd been beyond busy, and all anyone had to do was ask. Which they hadn't. Batman Inc., world's greatest detectives, _hellooo? _A hint of amusement flashes in his fatigued mind as he puts the phone to sleep, not bothering to reply. If there can be tone sent via text, Dick's is decidedly accusatory.

Less than five minutes later, Tim's pouring a cup for himself and fingerstripes are rapping against bulletproof glass. Tim grins to himself, mostly because Dick's getting better at finding his living quarters, but partly because he's just super tired, and points to his bedroom.

Nightwing raises an eyebrow under his domino mask, but scales the building to the next room over where his little brother meets him and opens the window from the inside after punching in the security code. Dick more-or-less tumbles in with the night air and a cheery atmosphere as Tim tosses the window shut with the hand not occupied by a mug.

A chuckle rumbles through Dick's chest as he leads the way to Tim's new living room and takes a bundle from his back, unloading it onto the coffee table. Tim's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Alfred sends cookie," he says, serious but lighthearted. "Says you'll forget to eat if he doesn't."

Tim nods distractedly as his free hand twitches forward—_food does not belong in the living room—_and notes that he ate sometime earlier when Kon brought pizza to a team meeting. Right?

"You get my message?" Dick asks, his happiness a little forced, when Tim fails to respond.

"Uh-huh," he nods again, starting to feel like a bobble head.

Dick's mouth flattens out as he waits for more of an answer, and he looks absolutely dissatisfied and a little anxious when he doesn't get one. "You need to start telling someone when you move, Timmy. That'll seriously get us into trouble one of these days."

Tim scoffs a bit, but Dick's not giving in this time. Not going to let him off the hook and say something else for his dislike of awkward silence. He waits, and finally Tim gives in.

"So what do you think of it?" he asks, making a sweeping gesture with his hands.

Dick looks around curiously, hands on his hips as he surveys. When he speaks again, it's carefully neither positive nor negative. "How many people do you have living in here, Timmy? I mean, spacious is one thing, but this rivals the Batcave."

"That's an exaggeration and you _know it,_" Tim defends himself. And he can simply not stand the bag of cookies on the coffee table anymore—_food does not belong in the living room—_so he darts forward and grabs it like it would have tried to make a break for it, and turns toward the kitchen. Dick's suddenly standing in front of him, and he can't figure out how the hell he did it for the life of him. With one hand, his big brother takes the bag, and the other grasps the mug; Tim gives him the former, but retains his hold on the latter.

"Come on, man, let go," he says, brow furrowing. "I'm not done with that."

Without looking—or ever having been in the penthouse before—Dick sets the bag on the counter behind him and peels off his mask to see Tim without the veiling lenses.

"Timothy Jackson, you've obviously had enough coffee for one night," Dick says with a staged roll of the eyes.

"It's decaf." Tim tries to tug it back, but Dick only pulls harder.

"Yeah, right. And I've just decided to become the Joker's new sidekick." His eyes sparkle in the moment they stand there, locked into stare-down combat, though Tim's eyelids are drooping more and more by the second. "Seriously little brother, I think three-thirty is the cut off—"

"Three—" Time cuts him off, eyes flying to the digital clock (synched up with his phone, communicator, microwave, and alarm clock) and widening to the point of bulging. Dick takes the moment of shock to rip the mug away, dumping the contents down the sink along with the rest of the pot. A sad whimper-groan crawls up the back of the younger's throat and he wipes his hand across his face.

Coffee forgotten, Tim pushes Dick from behind, steering him back toward his bedroom door. "No, out the window you go. I've got three hours…less than three hours to get this information—this _nonexistent_ information—gathered and to Bruce so he can use it against Cobblepot…." He trails off, before steering him back to the couch and his computer. "After we get you into the security systems. Then you can come back whenever, 'kay?"

Dick digs his heels into the ground, effectively stopping the meek pressure on his back from propelling him forward. Tim simply grunts in exasperation and jogs around him, flipping open the notebook and punching in a few lines of code before motioning Nightwing to put his hand on the monitor. He does, a slightly bemused set to his mouth, and the program will now recognize him and let him in to the penthouse, which he makes a note to do more often, since, obviously, Tim is stressed.

Images start flashing rapid fire across the screen again, and Dick suspects that Tim wouldn't be able to process the words if they went even half as fast.

"Little brother," he says softly, gently as he stills the teen's wrist. Tim's eyes dart to him, circles underneath growing with every passing breath. Dick's thumb strokes the porcelain-pale skin slowly in what he hopes is a soothing manner. "I'm staying, m'kay? I'm gonna help you with the research, because it's more than a little obvious that you haven't slept in at least a day. Is that okay?"

Tim's eyes flash. "Thirty-four hours." He's referring to the number since he last slept, but can't seem to find the words. "And…I guess that's alright."

Four of Alfred's Double Chocolate Chunk cookies and half an hour later, Dick has emailed Bruce all the intel he'll need to get this new thug of Penguin's, but more importantly, Tim has fallen asleep on the couch next to him. Dick hacks his brother's phone, sets all alarms to 'silent,' and covers him up. As he slips out into the golden light of Gotham's morning air, he makes a note to get that kid some plants or something. Maybe if he has to remember to water the flowers he could remember to feed himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This one's much shorter than the last. A couple of things I forgot to add last night in my sleep-deprived state. 1) My apology for any tense screw-ups I may commit. Pleasepleaseplease tell me if I do it. I used to write in past, but have recently discovered the joys of the present tense in use in these one-shots. 2) I forgot to include a disclaimer. So.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own…well, anything. Starving artist working at a movie theater, **_**I can hardly afford this computer.**_** (It's actually school-issued.)**

**Enjoy! (^_^) and review!**

**/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/**

Sweat pours down Damian's neck, drops of the salty water fly from his short black hair as he stumbles to a halt.

Again.

He doesn't know how in the world Drake manages the intricate aerial feat that always seems to turn his opponents to the defensive in one fail swoop. Damian's seen Red Robin execute it to near-perfection in both training as well as in the field, and it never ceases to raise an intolerable spike of fury in the pit of his stomach every time he sees it firsthand. He'd seen it one too many times, the (approximately) twelve degree imperfection in the genius move. It eats at him.

He doesn't know what kind of household Drake grew up in, but Damian didn't leave things imperfect; it wasn't in his blood. In fact, he's shocked that Grandfather would want anything to do with the indolent pile.

Those extra twelve degrees would give the snap required for optimum use of the spinning momentum. Damian groans. Twelve degrees? Hell, he can't even _land _the damn thing. If he wasn't the son of the Batman, he might consider the possibility that he missed something, some vital piece of the carefully choreographed Swan Queen's dance.

A deep chuckle from the side of the mat snaps Damian to attention—_how had he not heard Father approaching?—_to see the Batman himself in nothing more than thin training gear, with a slight upward curve in his mouth and a rare sparkle in his eye.

Bruce recognizes the flip maneuver as Tim's in an instant. While other parents might recall their children's report cards or Christmas ornaments made, Bruce knows by heart all of his kids' fingerprints, can picture every costume ever worn (no matter how briefly), and their signature fighting moves. This one may as well have Red Robin's 'R' painted on the front.

The move's next to impossible. Bruce knows, Batman's tried it. Trained it, utilized it in combat—but only on rare occasions. Only when there's enough adrenaline in his system to whip it out, and when he does he has to picture Tim's rendition.

"Exhausting yourself isn't going to help, Damian," he chides, the small half smile still lifting his lips.

Pride and embarrassment battle on his son's face for no more than a couple of seconds before he sighs, looking very much his age with a bruise on his elbow and his disheveled hair.

"I began training with intentions to correct Drake's careless errors," he says evenly as his shoulders bend with deep breath. "And I plan entirely," he continues, voice practically _daring _his father to tell him otherwise, "on reaching my goal."

Bruce's mouth flattens into a much straighter, much more commonplace expression for him. There's a fine, blurry, jagged line between determination and obsession he knows all too well, but it's obvious that Damian's unwilling to admit defeat against Tim, so he doesn't mention it. For now. Instead, he raises an almost bemused eyebrow.

"'Careless errors?'" he echoes. "I think you're getting dehydrated if you think that Tim's execution is any—"

"Father," Damian cuts in. "While Drake is, for all thorough sentiments, doing the move wrong," Bruce doesn't point out that it's _Tim's move, _making the way he does it the right way by default, "I admit that he is the closest so far. This is…unacceptable."

Bruce shoves a lecture about brotherhood and teamwork into the recesses of his mind. He and Damian are finally getting along better—with some coaching from 'Dr.' Dick—and he doesn't want to pollute the opportunity. "Well, what do you think you're doing wrong?"

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

Neither father nor son hear the motorcycle approaching, each equally engrossed in their training exercise. So when Tim pulls off his cowl in passing, both guilty parties freeze in a comical picture of frustration. Bruce has got a calm expression on his face, except for the vein that sticks out in his forehead when presented with a particularly puzzling challenge, and Damian, picking himself up from the ground—_again—_has got his small hands balled up into fists.

A few seconds pass as Tim eyes them warily, and then a few more, until he shakes his head at the two and proceeds to unsnap his ammo belts.

"Nope, nu-uh," he declares, walking off to what they call the 'Locker Room.' "I don't _even_ want to know."

Bruce thinks about stopping him, but he doesn't think his youngest son's ego can take the hit. He decides that it's a secret of willpower and bird-lite bones.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, I'm not very good at remembering all the things I'd intended to say in the **_**first **_**author's note. This one: LEAVE ME PROMPTS. I'm not nearly creative enough to keep coming up with my own ideas; you guys have got to help me out. Pretty please? With a cherry on top? Make it as vague or as detailed as you want, give me the characters. I'm here for **_**you, **_**you guys make the rules. I don't really know how this turned out. Fluffy, maybe? Hopefully still in some plane of possibility and not completely OOC….hopefully. (psst! I'll only know if you tell me!)**

**So, now that that's out of the way, enjoy!**

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

The evening at the Manor is quiet as ever, if not for the lack of noise then for the way it all gets lost in the vastness. Upon entering the kitchen Tim quirks an eyebrow to the scene he finds, but, to his credit, his stride doesn't falter. Alfred Pennyworth (the most mysterious force in the cosmos, Tim is absolutely certain) has somehow, _somehow _gotten the demon spawn to sit at the island with his homework as dinner's prepared.

It would appear that Alfred was paying no mind to the boy glowering at a small textbook. That his attention was solely on the carrots he chopped with expert speed and a certain refinement that belongs to Alfred and him only. In reality—and to everyone's common knowledge—he's really keeping his hawk eyes trained on the Boy Wonder. Damian's school attendance had been a fight, Tim knows this, and even now he views it as more of a covert mission than a learning environment. He thinks he's there to observe 'normal, inferior' children, and Bruce knows he's there to learn and make friends.

Tim's sure they're both lunatics, but Alfred is at least pretending to side with Bruce, so he says nothing.

Instead, Tim takes a roundabout way to the refrigerator, just so he can glance casually over Damian's shoulder, note the long division problem scrawled across the paper (among a _pile _of eraser shavings), and say "Forty-seven, remainder five," in a cheerful tone, all before taking a bottle of cold water from the lower shelf.

A ripping sound cuts through the kitchen, but the thing that concerns Tim is the lack of words. More specifically, the lack of vehement, hate-fuelled threats and derogatory snaps that come from the kid whenever the world is rotating.

Tim rises and turns around, half-expecting to find a sword to his throat. In its place is a boy scowling deeper than his young face should allow, and not only is his assignment shredded, but so are the pages of the book.

"Damian?" Tim asks in equal parts exasperation and shock. "Hey! You can't do that to school property—"

Leaving the rest of the book on the counter, he's already storming out of the room. Gone before a lecture can even start.

Alfred, on the other hand, looks like he's gearing up for a speech as he turns toward Tim, knife still in hand, and opens his mouth.

"I'm on it, Alfred," he says quickly, setting the bottle down and holding up his hands as if to hold off an attack. Swiftly moving toward the door his little 'brother' exited from, he just barely hears:

"Do use caution, Master Tim. He's been looking for an excuse to maim somebody all afternoon."

Damian's not stupid, so he obviously didn't go to his room. Nor does he occupy the study, the Cave, or the general living room. There are a couple of good hiding places he learned in the time he lived at the Manor, but Damian doesn't occupy any of them. He finds the kid as he passes Bruce's master bedroom, standing in front of the grand, floor-length mirror. The mirror was made for a body the size of the Batman, not his ten-year-old son.

Tim raps his knuckles against the doorframe, but Damian doesn't start so he enters. He walks up and, careful not to accidentally bump into his back, stands behind the kid to admire the reflection. Damian looks absolutely surly, while Tim's hand rests against his hip so he doesn't give in and ruffle Damian's hair. He might be evil…be he just looks like such a kicked puppy that even Tim fells a little pity. Having been on his second eraser and first piece of lead, the fourth grader's frustration had been evident. It would be a lie to say that he hadn't been asking for it.

He could wait for Damian to start talking, but he doesn't want to be standing here still when Bruce gets home…

"It's no big deal, you know. You'll pretty much never need to know long division." _Smooth, Tim, really smooth._

"I don't know what you're talking about, Drake," Damian huffs. A small vein is standing out above his left collarbone, a major tell for him. Tim simply rolls his eyes.

"My spelling's atrocious," he admits factually. "Jason always had that problem with authority. If anything went wrong for Dick in school, he was too perfect—that'll get you into trouble in excess. And," he pauses to build the suspense and wait for Damian to meet his eyes in the mirror. Just like Bruce, as calculating and wounded. Less afraid of death than failure. "unless Alfred lied to me, Bruce never got the best grades in math," he stage whispers, face completely serious. _It's okay, Dami. Nobody's perfect._

"I appreciate the misplaced sentiment, Drake, but I have no such quarrels. I'm hardly attending for the purpose of academia." _Thank you, Tim. Don't think any less of me._

"Of course. But that doesn't mean Alfred's going to let you drop out." _You're welcome. Just get help before you get behind._

And before it could get too terribly awkward or Damian asked if he meant that Tim would teach him himself, Alfred called them for dinner. Another flash of a smile in the mirror toward his younger brother and Tim was out the door, halfway down the staircase when a grin ghosted across Damian's feature, his hand coming to a rest on his shoulder where Drake's had touched on his way out.

If that obsolete pet of his father's told as much as an ant about Damian's…delayed long division abilities, he would live only long enough to see the things he loved burn.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello there! I think it's time we got some character variety. Why drunk! Steph and brother! Jay you ask? Simply because Stephanie's not always optimistic and Jason doesn't always have to be self-destructive. Plus, they're cute. Not a ship, but as a brother-sister relationship.**

The sun was setting by the time Jason pulls into the Batcave. He's not particularly used to being diurnal, though his investigations today took him to the underbelly of MinotCo, a subsidiary of LexCorp—though hopefully far enough down the list of importance to draw the tycoon's attention. He doesn't even have it in him to put the kickstand up on his bike. He simply lays it on his side and lets his helmet roll to a stop at its side before practically dragging himself up the stairs to the Manor.

Jason swears to get the _fuck _out of there…as soon as he gets something to eat. A little voice tempts him with the possibilities of Alfred's baking. A much louder voice tells it to _shut up, you'll take what's there._

The lights are off, which isn't too odd since the room he appeared in was a side living room (the label of which caused him to roll his eyes), but so were the lights in the main hallway. With only the fridge's light illuminating his face, he pauses. Cocks his head and stops chewing the drumstick between his teeth. Listens.

There's a dull thud, like someone banging on the wall. He hasn't taken two steps when something crashes into him. From _behind._

Jason manages to turn around just enough to catch a glimpse of blond and get a mouthful of hair as they both go down and the chicken leg rolls away. _The sneaky bitch._

And he knows who it is before he shoves her off of him, because anyone else that can get into the Manor with nobody home has black hair or is balding. Now she's sitting on the ground, blinking owlishly, and staring up at a man who is much more the Red Hood than he is Jason Todd. And holding a knife nonetheless, not that he even remembers reaching toward the block.

"The hell, kid?" he snaps, sheathing the knife after an impressive flourish. "I could've slit your throat. _Don't sneak up on me,_" he practically hisses.

"Jason?" Stephanie says stupidly, still not rising. Frustrated—_this girl's supposed to be a vigilante?—_he flips the light switch and does his best to hide a flinch. Her eyes are rimmed with red and saltwater tracks have been laid over her cheeks. Jason steps closer to get a look at her pupils (which are too large) and the smell hits him like a freight train. Not just beer, but hard alcohol. If he had to guess? Vodka. And she looks like a puppy on one of those animal cruelty commercials, a look familiar to him.

"Where is everyone? It's like a ghost town in here." It's about as close as he can come to asking if she's okay, because that's sappy. Sappy, Jason Todd is not.

She has to use the counter to hoist herself up, and Jason stands by awaiting her answer. Steph's absolutely _hammered,_ Jason realizes, and she was still able to get behind his back.

"_Japan,_" she spits, like a particularly offensive curse. "They've gone to _fucking Tokyo,_ but at least i'looks like I'm not the only one they 'forgot' t'tell."

"So what are you doing here, Brown?" he asks in the most disinterested voice he can conjure up, though he does catch her arm when she starts to topple. Wow, yeah. Time to get her to bed….

Except, you know, she doesn't exactly live here either. Jason, gentility being lost on him and without the patience of a bat, he practically shoves her before him to the main living room's couch. The whole way, her shrill protests and stumbling feet leave Jason wondering just how far gone she is. She lands heavily against the armrest, glaring with cloudy, heavy-lidded eyes, though Jason's not paying her any attention, but his focus belongs to the drained bottle of Grey Goose.

The cynical girl makes as if to get up, and Jason points at her. "I swear to God. I know I'm supposed to be behaving, but there's nothing to say I can't nail your foot to that couch to keep you put."

"Fine," she says, pouting. "I'll just wait 'til you _leave._" The last word's said like she already knows what he's going to do, and if there's one thing Jason can't stand, it's people thinking he's predictable. A cliché that comes with a map.

He doesn't know what to do though—_this is not his home, and this girl, he barely knows her, not well enough for emotional support. But…I'm pretty sure I could make sure she doesn't do anything stupid._

"I'm not," he says, flopping down on an overstuffed leather chair unceremoniously and snagging the remote.

They watch the television for half an hour in silence. To Jason, it's comfortable, even though he got his knife out, twirling it and pressing it into his skin. Not enough to cut, but just enough to keep him awake. To Stephanie, it's torturous. Her hands sweat and she feels like shit. Her hands reach out and she grasps the light bottle, feeling the liquid slosh against the side, though she holds it more like a teddy bear than a bottle of alcohol.

"I didn't want…to be—alone," she says brokenly, quickly pressing the mouth of the bottle to her lips and drinking fire, a vain attempt to drown her own words. All of the ease has leaked out of Jason's posture, out of his _mind._ "There's _always _someone at the manor."

_Except tonight,_ Jason thinks, _when she needed someone._ He doesn't dare say anything though. How old is this girl? Nineteen at most? It's not like he can say anything without being a hypocrite, but the kid looks miserable.

Stephanie doesn't tell him what's wrong, and he doesn't ask. She doesn't even want to talk about it, she just wanted Alfred to make her a hot meal, a knowing look from Bruce, hell, she'd even have settled for a 'Fatgirl' quip from Damian. She's glad that Jason's there, even if it's a begrudging presence. He's there and he hasn't left or tried to throw that knife at her.

"You okay, Blondie?" Jason asks, taking his muddy boots from the coffee table and leaning forward. "You don't look so great."

Face paled, bottle discarded, Stephanie nods tersely. Her face gains a green hue, and Jason's halfway out of his chair by the time she's got her head halfway in the toilet down the hall. To his credit though, he's got his foot in the doorway before it can be slammed in his face.

Jason pulls her hair back from her face and toilet water and she gurgles around leftover lasagna and Vodka, protesting his presence and apologizing between heaves. He shushes her because _fuck, she's not going to remember ANY of this in the morning._

"It's okay," he mutters in her ear as she pants into the porcelain. "I'm right here."

Once her mouth is rinsed out and he's helped her into one of the spare bedrooms upstairs—he's sure Bruce would have no quarrel with it—she's nearly out. Half into a drunken slumber, she's apologizing like crazy and it's all Jason can do to not knock her out himself. _It'll only be a couple of minutes,_ he chides himself. Her hair's draped over her face like a backwards wig, which has got to make it hard to breathe so he flips it back across the pillow.

He's planning on dragging a chair in, or he's so tired he thinks he could crash on the floor, leather jacket, boots and all, but when he takes his hand back she grabs onto it.

"Stephanie," he groans to her pleading eyes, detangling her fingers from him and pulling away. He makes it as far as to the foot of the bed, where he sits and pulls a knee up for his chin to rest on.

He thinks she's been unconscious for a while when her mouth and lets a "Thanks, big bro," slip out. And only because she's asleep again, completely drunk, and he's tired enough to be delirious himself her replies:

"What's family for, kid?"

The clock strikes midnight and Jason closes exhausted eyes. While Jason's getting along with most of his siblings and mending his relationship with Alfred more every day, it's fitting that Bruce would be gone today.

So it's officially April 27th as he kicks his boots of and falls asleep sitting up on the comforter by Stephanie Brown's feet, glad he isn't alone for the first year since it happened.

**A/N: And in case those of you out there don't know: April 27, Jason's death day. The head canon for this fic being that it's the day Stephanie's baby was born. Total head canon, there's no truth whatsoever to it, but it was cute.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Okay, so I have not a single idea how to play Supergirl…but it was requested. So I did my best. They're teenage girls at a **_**concert **_**for crying out loud, so I'm guessing 'fangirl' is appropriate. For the purpose of this fic—and I don't know what the real dealio is—Kara, Steph, and Dick know one another's identities. The only Kara I know is the Young Justice version, so that's what you get. Dick/Steph moments were also requested, so there're a couple sweet ones here. Beware the fluff, it comes in abundance. **

**Also, Steel Ribbons, as far as I know, is not a real band…**

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

Dick crosses his arms over the plush leather chair Stephanie's working from, his chin atop his hands. She doesn't pop over to the Cave as much anymore, choosing to work on her own. He's missed her. Mostly Bruce and Damian hang around—they do _live _upstairs, after all, and Bruce has been having some…trouble with his son lately—but they're more _glass half empty_ people.

"Hey Steph," he says cheerily. "Something important?" he asks, indicating the monitor before her.

"Hi Dick," she grins, craning her neck to look up at him. "Not really, but my Internet's down, so…" She shrugs.

_And it was easier to come out to the Manor and down to the Cave than to go to a café with wifi?_ "Ah. So, what _are _you doing?"

"Just buying some concert tickets." Her grin widens.

He chuckles. "They why do you look like the bird that swallowed the canar—" She closes the window, but not before Dick can catch a 'glimpse' at it. "Hold up. The _Steel Ribbons?"_ The band doesn't have the…best reputation. Actually: Death Cult Worshipers was pretty accurate. And their concerts…

"Yep."

"Please tell me you're going—under cover, or something."

"Nope."

"Then….surely you're not going _alone."_

"Nope."

"I-can-give-one-word-answers-too."

Her fingers fly up one at a time, one for each word. "That was seven words, genius."

"Nope. It was all hyphenated. One word." He grins in his triumph and spins her chair around to face him. "Who're you going with?"

"…Kara."

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

Dick and Steph wait outside the massive stadium until Kara flies up. In civvies, nonchalantly flying. Dick groans…on the inside. Stephanie's perceivably annoyed that he's here, and he agreed to be nice. She swears they're just angsty girls that like the tantrum music.

A few people recognize Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne's Dick Grayson, the handsome boy that was just as loaded but much less showy with his money. One or two girls giggle, most are raven-haired and have multiple piercings and just roll their eyes or scoff. _Rich boy, spoiled kid doesn't know how the rest of us SUFFER._ And Dick can't help but smirk at _that._

Kara's made them late, and when they make their way through the back doors, it's _packed. _There's a ring of about four feet around the back where no people are, but that's only because people are pushed up so closely to the stage. As Dick stands back, just far enough so he can see the girls over the heads of a few rockers, he wonders why he's here. It's not like the girls can't handle themselves, especially with Kara there. Except that she can be the slightest bit flighty, but Stephanie's focused enough. To be honest, he worries about his little sister sometimes. Even knowing her death was a scheme, he can't help but to hold on to some of the grief for the blond-haired, blue-eyed kid. She's sweet, not to mention the only other family member that'll willing wear matching Christmas sweaters with him. And she can usually get Tim on board too.

_At least they stand out as the only two blonds in the whole place,_ he thinks with a smile. Maybe it's really not a death cult. The music isn't terrible, only the screamo. Some of the lyrics are even _meaningful,_ and they have more than one song about double lives and being in the dark alone and he can relate. Dick even starts to mumble the chorus to a particularly catchy song when he notices the girls trying to push their way forward—Kara trying desperately not to break anyone's bones, and Steph's trying to get past the tightly packed bodies.

_Smooth, kids._

Dick steps forward and grabs her hand from where it's trying to pry two leather-clad shoulders apart.

"Hey!" she shouts, exasperated. _Ohmygod,_ she thinks in complete dismay. _This is the most uncool thing to ever happen to me EVER. _"Dick, come on! Let goooo!" she moans.

He rolls his eyes and grabs Kara's hand. Her eyes bulge, but she doesn't say anything.

Dick literally and strategically charms their way forward. Telling people as they pass that he admires their hair—which some of the styles are really cool—or asking where they got a particularly kickass pair of boots or simply telling them he promised he'd get his sisters to the front. It's hard to keep their hands, but if he doesn't he knows they'll be swept to the back. So they thread through where they can, convince people to let them pass when they must, and he even holds their hands over people's heads when they get stuck for a verse or two.

Stephanie's stopped struggling, and while they still both jump and bounce in time with the head-splitting drum beats, they follow gratefully. Despite getting stuck in the mosh pit and Dick taking a detour to help some teenage boy wearing skinny jeans and black lipstick who got a tooth punched out in a fight, they get to the front for the last three numbers and hold their ground well. The lead singer touches Kara's hand—which she swears she'll _never wash again_—and gives a vampire-toothed grin to Stephanie, making her practically _melt._ After the band leaves the stage, they all join the rest of the crowd in chanting '_Steel Ribbons, Steel Ribbons, Steel Ribbons!' _until they get an encore. Even Dick, who's starting to genuinely enjoy the way they incorporate complicated guitar riffs, the powerful bass, and even the occasional painful wail.

It takes forever to get out of the arena, and as they wait it's too loud to ear with all the chatting and pumped up laughter from everyone else. They finally say goodbye to Kara though, and she flies off with a new poster clutched in her hands, and this time Dick _does _moan, knowing full well that she can hear him. They get to Dick's car and it takes them the better part of an hour to get out of the traffic caused by the Steel Ribbons. Steph's nearly asleep by the time he stops in front of her house, and she looks like she's drowning in her new black t-shirt—they'd only had larges left, and she'd taken one gladly. He shakes her shoulder gently and she starts, looking at him with surprised eyes, then down at the logo across her chest, remembering.

Next thing he knows there are arms around him, and Stephanie's hugging him tightly across the seat.

"Thanks for taking us to the concert, Dick," she says in a voice croaking from sleep and screaming. "You're the best big brother."

"Anytime," he assures her, hugging back tightly before letting her go and watching her walk inside.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Requested from Shiary XD and I love the idea (all of the ideas, actually, and they'll all be written eventually). This chapter really screwed with my search history…whoops! This is my school laptop, so I hope the tech guys don't feel the need to look at that ("Electroshock torture, most effective torture techniques, burn torture," need I go on?)**

**WARNING: Descriptions of torture included. How bad, you ask? Bad enough for Jason to be praying for death-by-crowbar. :O**

**I should be shot for having enjoyed writing this.**

**/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/**

It was the bad thing about operating alone. Well, one of many. Don't get him wrong, he and his siblings had been having an alarming number of… almost positive encounters lately. But that didn't mean they all sang _Kumbaya_ around the fire. No, they still disagreed on how to clean up the crime-ridden streets of Gotham. He still killed too… but less-so, not that he'd admit it. Only when absolutely necessary.

He still refuses to wear a ridiculous com-link while out on patrol. And so here he is, fading in and out of consciousness in some sort of torture chamber set up by Two-Face. He's strapped to some sort of metal table and he's been here for what he thinks is around a day, but it's hard to tell. Dent comes in at seemingly-random intervals, and it's always something different, but always unpleasant.

He'd come in with two options on a wheeled surgical stand, flip the coin, and _viola._ Fun times decided on for the next couple hours. So far? So far he'd been subjected to burns and a crude brand twisted into a crooked '2' (on the bottom half of his body), varying sizes and depths of Xs were carved into his skin with an unclean-looking scalpel (on the right half of his body) while electroshock had been used to send his body into agony and uncontrollable spasms (stopping at the hips somehow), and, lastly, burrowing maggots had been permitted to tunnel into his flesh (but only on the left half) which, if he had to choose, was his least favorite. While the others had turned into background noise, the insects still gnawed and tunneled through blood vessels and muscle tissue

Now that the cardinal directions had been covered, Jason was pretty sure that Two-Face wasn't going to go into north-northeast and southwest. Through the tormented ruins of his mind, Jason felt a vague appreciation for the originality and thought put into his killing. Not murder—he deserved it, this time around. He'd poked his head into one too many of Harvey Dent's operations, screwed up just enough of his reputation to get his life taken. And it was almost okay in the poetic nature, not as much of an insult as a fucking crowbar and bomb.

Tears mix with the blood on his cheeks as he hears the door unlocking again. Jason cracks open his sore lid—the left one being swollen shut—just in time to see Two-Face's scarred hand holding an electric knife.

"I'm too eager," he admits, the deformed side of his face looking like a wicked smile where the lips had been dissolved. "We're not even flipping for this one."

Jason couldn't keep his eyes from slamming shut at the sight—_there goes the Death With Dignity plan—_and more tears stream down the grime and maggot-raised knobs on his cheeks.

_Crowbarcrowbarcrowbarcrowbar ._

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

Robin skirts around the building's skeletally-brick exterior. Even though he's seen the schematics, _knows _that it's completely refurbished on the inside, it looks like a dump. Todd's been missing for nearly forty-eight hours, as Alfred pointed out on the open link minutes before. If Two-Face really had him two days ago, he's got to be dead by now. But Father was adamant that if there was even still a chance—which there really wasn't—they were going in after him.

Damian hates Todd's guts with every fiber of his being, would love nothing more than to see his pathetic life ended (except maybe the untimely demise of another certain Boy Wonder, and _no, _it wasn't Dick and Stephanie's a girl) but there are some things worse than the look on Batman's face if he let it happen. One of which being losing Father to the ghost of the Red Hood.

Batman was at the other end of the building, the front, taking it head-on to give Damian time to get into the 'Interrogation' rooms. Damian wasn't stupid, he knows what torture is, of course. Grandson of Ra's al Ghul, the Demon Head and leader of the League of Assassins? So, while he'd never witnessed much of it, he's prepared.

"All guards have vacated their positions to deal with the threat," an urgent voice growls in his ear. "Go, Robin."

He gets in with no problems, and starts his search. The rooms are empty save what look like autopsy tables and some blood—and an ear swept into the corner carelessly—until he gets to the fifth. There's a…body on this slab, but no mask, boots gone, and helmet absent. In fact, Damian wouldn't recognize Jason except for the silver tuff of hair blossoming from the black. Even though it's dirty, it's still there.

Robin rushes forward without hesitation and tires to feel for a pulse on the jugular vein, but something squirms underneath the skin and it takes the kid a moment to realize that it's a bug. Retrieving his hand quickly, he puts it against the man's chest, but no sooner does he touch the bare skin there that an agonized moan strikes Damian's ears.

_Todd's…alive?_ Not only is Damian shocked, but he's disgusted. _That must be intolerably painful._

"Father…?" he asks, uncertain.

"Robin? Found something?" He can hear the battle raging in the background.

"I…yes. I found Red Hood. He's alive, but—"

"Get him out, if you can. I'll catch up."

Damian swallows. "Yes, Father," he whispers before closing the line and calling the Batmobile remotely to the outside of the vicinity. Carrying Jason isn't hard, he hasn't been fed in days and he's only wearing pants, but it scares Damian. He's fragile, and if there's one thing Todd is not, it's fragile. And there are more maggots than he can count squirming underneath his skin... on the left. _Jesus Christ, _he thinks, tough he shouldn't be surprised. _Dent even has to torture people in twos. _Plus, there's a setting on his grapple for such a feat. It causes great stress to the abused body, being moved does, and his breathing becomes shallow as the car pulls up. Todd gets laid in the backseat, and Damian's still himself enough to note that the ingrate's getting blood _everywhere_, and Damian gets into the driver's side, though the Batmobile can pretty much drive itself.

Their ETA is approximately five minutes when Damian hears the sputtering sound coming from behind him. At first he thinks that Todd's woken up into a panic. He's in the middle of telling Alfred that he's got to _get his elderly rear end to the Cave right now _when he cuts off and looks over his shoulder. The man's chest is heaving, but he's still unconscious.

Frowning, Damian crawls over the seat to kneel on the ground and inspect. He presses his hand to the _right _side of Todd's throat—despite the unsanitary, barely-clotted cuts on that half of his body—and pushes his head to the side. Blood spills out of his mouth and the choking stops.

Damian swallows, grounds out "Don't die, Todd. Father would be upset, not to mention give you back your martyr's pedestal. To do that would be to spit on everything you've done since coming back…" He's been looking over Jason's body, and as he made it to the feet he noticed the shredded flesh. It looks like someone took a hacksaw to his Achilles tendons. _Todd's going to be nothing short of 'pissed off' when he awakes from this comatose state._ He rips off part of the outer layer of his cape—the part that's not Kevlar—and ties a strand to each ankle. The shock's almost enough to jolt Jason awake, but he only makes an anguished groan-whimper before becoming still again.

The next hour passes in a blur for Robin. Alfred meets him as the car parks itself with a gurney. Even though Damian can't tell what the butler's thinking from his body language—one does not simply _read _Alfred Pennyworth's emotions—he thinks he can feel the subtle desperation and quiet distress of the Englishman. Alfred has neither the time nor the patience to banish Damian from the med bay, so he simply lets the boy watch.

Sedative is administered, blood flow is staunched, maggots are pulled free and those wounds are cleaned for eggs, peroxide is basically poured into the cuts, burns carefully treated.

When Father throws open the door and strides in with a terrified grace, it takes him a moment to notice his son in the corner with a lax stance conveyed through tensed muscles.

"Damian," he addresses the child. "Go get changed." Damian shakes his head, but Batman has already redirected his attention.

"Alfred, how is he?"

"I wouldn't use the word stable quiet yet, sir, but I'd say his prognosis has increased in the past couple hours." Bruce nods before noticing the flutter of a torn cape in the corner. _Still _in the corner.

"Damian, I told you to get out of the way…"

He hesitates. Damian doesn't want to disobey Father a second time. Batman's testy, and the last thing Robin needs to be doing right now is instigating fights. A small, terse nod is sent his father's way before he turns to Alfred.

"Pennyworth," he says, the first word to a conscious person since radioing Batman earlier. "Todd nearly asphyxiated on his own blood in transport; you're going to need to clean the Batmobile."

Without another word, he left.

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

Five AM. Practically the only time you can go about your own business in the Manor, as big as it is. Unless, of course, Father's got an early meeting, or someone's coming home from a particularly late bout of patrol.

Damian's footsteps sound too-loud as they echo all the way down to the Cave's med bay. Todd's pale face shines with a ghastly sheen of sweat under the fluorescent lights, parts of him bulging and swelling all colors of the rainbow.

Wordlessly, he steps forward, aware of the pain Jason would be in were he awake, though Pennyworth doubtlessly had him set up with sedatives enough for an elephant. Muttered something about 'accursed Lazarus pits…'

The figure doesn't move underneath his gaze save for the shallow rise and fall of his now-covered chest. As he knew it wouldn't. He doesn't know why he's standing here, over the 'brother' guilty of trying to murder him.

The visual of maggots swarming the sterile med bay tables, the whitewashed floors and crawling their way through once-teal eye sockets had been imprinted on his unpainted ceiling when he'd tried to sleep. Pennyworth hadn't emerged from the depths of the cave since Jason had been brought in.

Pennyworth, though normally thorough, had capacity for gaffes. All Damian needs to do is make sure larva weren't skittering around his flesh, and then he'll be alright. He observes for a while, blinking only as much as he absolutely needs to.

A hand appears on his shoulder, and although he doesn't jump—_son of the goddamn Batman—_he tenses considerably. He doesn't look back either, but Alfred's steady voice reaches his ears:

"Master Damian, awake already?" he inquires, and Damian can practically see him raising an eyebrow in his mind's eye.

"Yes," he replies without missing a beat. "Merely making sure you haven't missed anything."

"And…?" the man queries, proper, polite, and the slightest bit amused.

Damian nods thoughtfully. "Did you make sure," he clears his throat to rid the vision swimming in his head like a nightmare, "to get all of the maggots?"

Alfred sighs inaudibly. "I believe so, yes. Rest assured, I've also laced his IV with an atihelminthic to kill any remaining insects and their eggs."

"Very good, Pennyworth." He nods again, this time in approval, and pokes a wary finger against Jason's limp arm. "It would have been a shame to get him here just to have Todd die of something so pathetic."

Alfred smiled openly since Damian still had yet to turn around. "Understandable, young sir. He should pull through with a good deal of rest. You did a commendable job getting him here," he tacks on seamlessly, "I'm not sure he would have made it otherwise."

Damian scoffs. "Don't be rash. Of course he would've made it. You don't get rid of someone like Todd so easily, Pennyworth."

"Either way," he continues. "With as much pride as your father, he's hopeless with gratitude. Though, I wouldn't put it past the lad."

"Maybe you wouldn't, but I would."

"Though Master Bruce is nearly quite incapable of such expression, Master Jason can—and I believe he will—show it through action." His eyes twinkle a bit and he places a kindly hand on a patch of skin on Jason's leg that he knows isn't _as _wounded as the rest of him. "They speak louder than words you know."

Damian's halfway through rolling his eyes when Alfred speaks again. "It appears to be nearly six. What do you say I mix up some pancake batter while you get dressed?"

With one last look at Jason's face—he'll be fine for an hour, right?—he turns toward the stairs. "That would be an acceptable plan of action." And then he's off, very pointedly not looking back in their direction.

A weak grip halts Alfred on his way from the room. The butler looks down to see an involuntarily winking face squinting up at him through the fluorescent glare. His mouth forms the words _Thanks, Alf._ but sound doesn't quite escape his chapped lips. It's okay to say that word, thanks, to Alfred. He's always been good at keeping secrets, even _before._

"You're quite welcome, Master Jason. Now, do get some rest, I wasn't joking." He squeezes his leg once more before exiting.

And Jason does, without the knowledge of a superior Damian hanging over his head. And, okay, maybe he revels in the feeling of _home_ a bit. As far as he's concerned, there's not a single safer place in the world than the Manor, and Alfred's such a genius that even the med bay's thin, flat bed is comfortable.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Sorry this one took a while to get up (it's not even as long as the others) but school's been hella busy, and I'm exhausted. Parents are leaving town for the weekend (PAR-TAY!) and I've got the lil' bro, plus school, plus dance practice, plus work. So yeah….good news is that he loves the Batfam about as much as I do, so I may enlist his help. If he doesn't want to, it may be a while before I get something else up.**

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

As you can imagine, Bruce Wayne is not a very religious person. He's a business man, the Playboy poster child (figuratively speaking), and just a plain _sinner_ in the eyes of an average Gothamite. His parents, however, were Catholic. So while Bruce does not particularly believe the sermons spoken to be "absolute truth," he attends on the special occasions: Christmas and Easter, mainly. Consequently, this also means that to curb any Devil-worshiping-rich-kid rumors, so do all current, public members of his family. At the moment that means Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, and Tim Drake-Wayne are dressing in suits on Easter Sunday at the Manor.

Dick came from Blüdhaven yesterday afternoon, Batman and Robin returned home relatively early from patrol, and Bruce even managed to get ahold of Tim and get him to spend his evening at the Manor. Early mornings aren't something any of them enjoy, and they all feel a similar abhorrence for the very idea of church.

Damian simply thinks it's a stupid, childish thing to do, believing in a God who can solve all your problems. _Just an avenue for desperate ignoramuses with no hope for the living world _he mutters, which Dick overhears and gently reminds him of all of the magic and supernatural they've seen in their careers, asking if he can really say the idea is so "far out."

Tim's the first one ready and he's standing down in the foyer, pulling at the constriction around his neck. Churches mean _funerals, _especially of late, and he can't get rid of the feeling of dread hanging over his head.

Finally they all congregate, and Dick claps a reassuring hand on his little brother's shoulder on the way out to the car. _Jesus, Timmy, just breathe, woulda? _he communicates with a bemused smile.

The car ride's quiet except for a grumbling ten-year-old, and upon their arrival and seating, some people whisper and point. Damian's suddenly almost jealous of Todd and Brown, remembering the girl's infuriating astonished "Bruce! You can't let _him _into the church, demons burn on holy grounds!" Which hadn't fazed him for _one second,_ because it was a preposterous idea to say the least. Especially now that they're sitting in the middle of a pew, Dick and Bruce both on the outsides and Damian and Tim sandwiched between—which, Bruce would realize later, had been an awful, senseless notion to begin with—Dick staying close to Tim's side and Bruce nudging his youngest son in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

Tim isn't sure if he quite believes in God, but he doesn't think he does, and as soon as they rise to sing he presses 'play' on the iPod concealed in his back pocket. His hair's _just _long enough to cover the wire that snakes out from underneath his white shirt collar.

Damian, in the middle of mumbling words from his hymnbook, grinds his teeth. _And Brown thought I was going to be the problem?_ He digs an elbow into Tim's ribs, and Tim glares at him because _Dammit that hurt, I have a rib on that side still healing from getting thrown into a wall._ Smirking, Tim touches the toe of his polished shoe to the side of Damian's. Dick's watching the pair out of the corner of his eye and Bruce is either ignoring them or lost in thought. Tim's doing nothing wrong.

They sit down again, and Damian 'sneezes,' and his arm accidentally clips Tim's shoulder in its spasm. Although it's quite convincing to everyone else in the room, an old lady in front of them even mutters "God bless you," but Dick's lips are pressed into a thin line. Bruce has also been alerted, seeing them only from their peripherals as they all turn to the front to chant "Amen."

The assaults become more and more blatant and the people around them start to full-out stare. Dick grips Tim's shoulder wordlessly, squeezing and willing him to _knock it the hell off._ Finally, when Tim steps on the back of Damian's shoe when they're in line for communion, the boy turns with a snarl and tackles him over the back of the nearest pew.

Tim cries out in shock as the boy's assassin-trained hands push down on his clavicle with almost enough pressure to break. He kicks him over in the narrow aisle and rolls away.

Dick and Bruce are striding toward them now, but Damian—determined to get in the last word, or rather, last _punch_—launches himself horizontally, landing head-first into Tim's stomach and effectively sending them crashing into the table holding crackers and grape juice.

_The blood and flesh of Jesus Christ all over the floor. On Easter. Perrrfect,_ Tim thinks as people take out their phones to capture the fight for the media. Dick pulls Damian away and marches down the line of pews and out the back with the kid under his arm as he growls something indistinctly about the "Sinful Swan Queen."

Tim's halfway through a sigh of relief when a large, intimidating hand closes around his forearm and hauls him to his feet, literally dragging him out the door too and enflaming the blossoming bruise over his collarbone. Bruce tows the teenager along to get the car—one does not have the butler drive him to church—and tells him to get in the back. Dick sits back there with him, and Damian's seated in the front with his father.

Bruce's jaw is working itself; he hadn't meant for either of the boys to get hurt, and he's sorry that he's going to have to pretend to be angry at them both for the rest of the day. He decides to 'forgive' them by dinnertime. He presses on the gas a little, thinking that he remembers hearing Tim's head crack against the ground. He should really be checked for concussions. Tim hasn't been inside a church for at least two years unless it's a mission or a death, and he seems relieved enough to be back in the car, even if he is a little freaked out that he's going to get killed for egging on Damian.

Dick's doing a fine job comforting him, and Damian in the passenger's seat is fuming.

"Father," he hisses under his breath. "He was listening to music!"

"I know," he replies evenly, forcing his voice down, almost to a bat-growl. "And you tackled him on holy ground."

Both boys are surprised when they hear of their punishments. Tim is to spend the remainder of the week at the Manor, supposedly so Bruce can make sure he knows how to behave himself. Damian is being sent out on patrol with Dick, supposedly because Bruce is too angry to go out with him that night. Neither one argues though, Tim's been missing Alfred's cooking dearly and the smell of the sheets unique to the property and Damian's been tortured by memories of the way he and Grayson could communicate without saying a word—as could he and Father—but the former would talk anyway.

"I can't say I approve, Master Bruce," Alfred relays later as his charge loiters in the kitchen, picking at what will be Easter dinner.

Bruce winks at the butler. "No, I can't imagine you would, Alfred. But they're both too proud to take suggestions, and I really _do _hate church."

After all, one does not seat Robin next to Red Robin unless they want to incite a riot.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Well well well. This is going to be at least a two-shot. Most ideas pertaining to this chapter come from my little brother who, for all purposes of this fic, will be called AC. Brilliant kid, only ten. My strengths lie in "decorating" plots, if you will. Adding detail and imagery. AC is good at plots, a coherent thread of events. Even if you**_** never**_** review for normal chapters—which I totally think you SHOULD, by the way—review this? I told my bro that if he helped me people would give feedback, you know, tell him what they liked, what he can improve on?**

**Anyway, next chapter will probably be a rescue mission. So enjoy!**

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

His footsteps don't echo, even through the puddle-strewn warehouse. Batman's silent as he skulks along a corridor, neither gauntlet nor boot slipping from his shadowy camouflage.

There's a sinking pit in the middle of his stomach—_he shouldn't been here, not alone—_and while he doesn't believe in hunches (detectives simply _don't_), he knows that his subconscious is capable of picking up on details he can't decipher. So, no, it's not a hunch, but he's suddenly sure he should have listened to Alfred.

In fact, he's about to request backup if for no other reason than to calm his frozen veins when a cackling hyena skitters across the smooth concrete on unsure claws.

He follows it, completely sure it's a trap and that he should have brought help, but there's nothing to be done now but follow the mutt to its owner and get the Joker back to his probably-still-warm bed in Arkham Asylum. Bruce simply can't imagine who he'd have brought in any case; he was currently on the receiving end of a silent treatment from Barbara, Jason had all but gone off the deep end with the return of his murderer, Dick—who would have been the most logical choice—lived in Blüdhaven, and the Joker breaking out was not something that Batman 'put off.' He could've always enlisted the help of Robin, his ten-year-old son, but couldn't bring himself to even tell the kid who he was going after with the knowledge he'd want to go after the criminal. Tim had been involved with the clown before, but it was different.

Jason was back and he wouldn't let another Robin—Red or otherwise—be taken by the fiend. Jason, no doubt drinking himself into a distraught coma somewhere in Gotham's slimy underbelly, reminded Bruce that these vigilantes he associates himself with are children. Could be killed. Barbara being back on her feet, though remarkable, was a reminder that she'd been crippled for years because of this man, this demon. This trickster.

The laughing savanna-dog leads him to the main part of the warehouse, one of three identical rooms, if Batman remembers the schematics right (and he does). He stops short after passing the threshold, not unsure but observing. Not counting the ten-yard boarder of emptiness around the walls there were floor-length mirrors propped up everywhere. Mismatched, some with heavy, intricate boarders and others attached to cardboard backing, all forming narrow passageways. A maze, a funhouse. Or, 111111111111111111rather…Joker's idea of a funhouse.

Batman steps forward cautiously and raises a Kevlar-covered finger to the silver trim of an expensive wardrobe, and frowns. A face stares back at him, though not his own. Some normal commuter, with a beat-up tie and a worn leather briefcase. Sidestepping, he lands in front of a basic mirror, which could have been mistaken for a sheet of glass unless you noticed the reflection. A dark face looks at him through this likeness, brown eyes making a perfect replica of his own confused, cowled expression. He turns around to find an Asian girl looking back at him, the same telltale crease between her eyebrows as his own.

Each mirror holds a new face, all baring an identic match to his countenance. The Joker's somehow manipulated the mirrors to all show a different person with his reflected image. It's unnerving even _before_ the Joker's laugh resonates through the moist air, bouncing and ricocheting from each slab of glass.

Bruce does his best, with little success, to not whip around for the source of the voice. It takes him a few moments with the way it's thrown through the expansive space to verify that it really is the Joker and not one of his snickering pets. The sound seems to distort itself a little more each time it reverberates through the maze, making it impossible to locate even the direction it had come from.

Turning left he passes through some similar-looking mirrors and, true to form, the two faces that stare at him could pass for siblings. The laughter's dying away now, but he thinks it's coming from ahead of him.

"Boo." One word, quietly spoken as the Joker retains his mirth to the best of his ability. It comes from behind, and Batman turns on his heel only to be stopped by the barrel of a revolver, or rather—by the bullet that escapes the chamber.

Bruce goes down, _hard._ The shot's ripped through the Kevlar and a couple inches to the right of his spine. His thoughts go fuzzy too fast for it to be from blood loss, bringing him to the hazy conclusion that the Joker's nicked something _important_ in there. He rolls on the floor making what in Batman's voice is a mere grunt of pain (but in Bruce Wayne's voice would be a scream of agony) and stares up at the wide-grinned, bloodshot-eyed face of his shooter as he presses the button in the second compartment to the left in his belt. A hyena by his ankles pads forward confidently and starts to lap at the blood pooling on the ground as Batman's distress signal is sent to the cave.

"Ha!" the man laughs, more in pleasant glee than in victory. "Now, I'm getting a sense of déjà vu…No, I'm _positive _of it—I've seen this before…" He takes a breath enough to blow the smoke from the barrel. "Urgh! What _was _that little bat brat's name? Let's see, Bat Lady? Nah… Miss Batty Pants? No, nonononono, that can't be right. I forgot, you people have that thingagainst _pants_ for some reason…" Batman growls up from his broken position on the floor, mind racing from what's probably his body going into shock.

_That bullet went straight through the Kevlar like it was tissue paper…new kind of bullet? Or maybe it was the gun. That's dangerous, I'm going to need to look into that. Hey, the Joker's still himself in the reflections. Strange. I hope Alfred sends someone soon, I'm having a little trouble focusing. _

"Ah, who knows? I mean, you do of course, Bats, but I don't even know if you're conscious anymore with that mask on. All I know is that the kid gets the advantages of handicap parking now." His smile widens as Batman clenches his fists. "So you are awake, are you? Good, this would be no fun if you were already asleep."

He turns to the dog still lapping at the puddle. "Sick 'em, boy."

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

Alfred, having picked up a sort of sixth sense for when things were going to go awry, had kept to the Cave all night, even resorting to dusting twice when there was nothing left to be done. Meaning it was nearly two in the morning when an alert message started flashing on every screen throughout the Cave.

With a long-suffering sigh, he found the specifics and put out a call on all open coms.

"Anyone in the area, Batman requires backup at dock B-76."

"I'm in the area," came the reply.

"Red Robin, do be careful."

"The docks?" The butler can hear a faint _whoosh_ as Tim's pulled along by his grapple gun. "So he actually went after the Joker alone?"

"Against my advice, I'm afraid, young sir." A leisurely smile of fond gratitude pulls Alfred's lips out. If there was one person in the family capable of keeping their head around the Joker, it was Tim. Tim, and his contingency plans. Some people take warm baths when they can't sleep, Tim listens to rap-metal and thinks up another way to ensure his success against any one of Gotham's villains.

"Of course. You know, for the 'world's greatest detective?' He's not too big on common sense sometimes."

"Finally. A body to understand my woes," Alfred jokes, relief spreading. Bruce is as good as home. "We can discuss it over tea tomorrow. For now…do be careful, Master Timothy."

"I will."

"No, I don't doubt you will."

The link cuts off and Alfred finds himself alone, surrounded by grey walls and sweaty training equipment. Even though he's already restocked the medical supplies just hours before, he wanders to the med bay and flips on the lights to await news of his charge.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: So it's pretty late and I'm too lazy to reread it. I simply haven't updated in a week and you guys deserve better. Also, my documents don't seem to want to pass along the italic message, so I'm sorry about that also.**

**O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O**

Tim's having a horrible night already by the time his predecessor catches up with him. It's been a long few weeks, filled with dead ends on his list and the little Demon Spawn changed the passcodes to the Cave so he couldn't even have any Alfred-brew coffee. The Folgers was starting to fray his nerves.

Don't get that mixed up though, 'horrible night' does not equate 'sloppy mistakes;' it's been just as awful an evening for Gotham's scum as it has for the Teen Wonder. Just because he's strung out doesn't mean he takes wild, blind swings—just the opposite. His focus pinpoints like a laser and he catapults his frustrations into red-faced, drug-peddling idiots, his smirk a little harsher than normal. He's broken a few more bones than he necessarily needed to. In fact, he's pretty sure that he's tweaked his left wrist punching a thug. He'd have Alfred look at it, but the passcodes. It's not like he can just call Bruce and have him change them back. Ra's al Ghul calls him the "young Detective" and there's no way in hell he can just let Damian win.

Tim's cheap coffee-concentration allows him the awareness of his surroundings to at least know when the Red Hood is coming for him. Red Robin's got enough sense left to lead him to an empty alleyway when a knife lodges itself into the brick three inches to the right of his head. The smirk is effectively wiped from his face and his eyes narrow under the domino.

"The fuck, Pretender?" Jason hisses, clearly not amused by something, though Tim can't imagine what. "The kid—my runner? You broke his legs, both of 'em!" Come to think of it, Tim has a vague recollection from a few hours ago that seems to fit the bill… "So I repeat: The fuck is wrong with you?"

It takes Tim a moment to respond, mostly because dirty little street thief doesn't match up with the kid in his mind. But that's the thing about Jason, street kids matter. In short, he gives a shit in a way that no other member of their 'family' does. Jason Todd is willing to spill blood, get his hands dirty, even run major drug deals and bully around big-time dealers. But no dealing to kids or you die.

Red Robin's mouth presses into a hard line because he has no real reason for why he broke that kid's legs. "Misplaced frustration," he apologizes after a beat. He can pretty much feel Jason's eyes widening under the hood.

"Babybird's got steam to let off?" he takes a precarious step forward so that he's completely and unforgivingly in Tim's space. "Who knew?"

Tim's foot shifts to take a step back and he realizes too late that his back's literally against the alley wall. Jason's face lights up—if that's even possible with the mask—and he takes it as his invitation, leaping forward the rest of the way. Tim's airway is closed where Jason's forearm is pressed against it.

With wide eyes, his voice makes a hissing noise rather than any coherent words.

"Well I was having a bad night before you fucked that kid up…" Jason curls over him, his form overpowering and it blocks out the moon just enough to make Tim feel claustrophobic. A literal knee-jerk reaction frees him from the leather grip and he leaps up to a fire escape.

"And here I thought we'd been getting along so well," Red Robin jokes, though it doesn't sound as confident as he'd like due to the soft rattle in his voice and the guilt sawing away at the remainder of his nerves.

"I don't give a shit about you," Jason says, quieter. "But knock it off with the whole Straighten Out This City act. Batman's not as deserving of the flattery as you think."

"I'm not mimicking B." Tim rolls his eyes.

"Pah-lease," he groans. "That kid, the one in the hospital with multiple fractures in both legs? He's a good kid. He doesn't want to be a fuck-up, in fact, he desperately wants to do good things. Remind you of anyone?"

Only anyone who's ever been Robin, he doesn't say. "Look, I didn't mean to hurt your runner, 'kay? I got carried away." The words are more ground out than spoken sincerely, but his caffeine is starting to decline, and he's going to crash any second.

"But I didn't give him a cape and make him swear an oath," Jason continues as if Tim hasn't just swallowed the remainder of his pride.

Tim bristles because he knows the general direction this conversation is going, and it's not a great one.

"B's ways aren't the only ones, Red," he says seriously.

"I kno—"

"You're way too much like him, more every day." It's then that it occurs to Tim that Jason's not even talking with him anymore, he's talking at him, telling him what needs to be said. It's not doing any good to interrupt, so he gives it up. "You can't give kids masks. I know it's the precedent he's set, but. Just don't. It doesn't work unless you were raised in a circus." There's a pause in the monologue, and it's obviously Tim's turn to talk now.

"It worked with me," is his eloquent response.

Jason's head turns from where it's been staring into space to give Tim a long-suffering look. "Yeah? Then what are you doing breaking teenagers legs without provocation?" The question's rhetorical and loaded, so Tim steps away from it. "You're about as screwed up as I am, and you weren't even dumped in a Lazarus pit. Nightwing's an exception, not a rule, and even he falls apart sometimes. And you're way too much like the Bat for my liking. So I'm warning you now, no kids-in-capes," he says, ripping his knife out of the wall like punctuation.

A half-idea makes Tim flick his fingers and pull up the display in his lenses. The date makes him flinch and he flinches, noting that Jason even looks like a ghost bathed in moonlight from where Tim's watching above in a fire escape. And Tim also knows why Bruce asked him to make the routes for him tonight, why he didn't ask Dick. He also suddenly has no idea of what to say.

"I wish I'd never been Robin," he blurts out before thinking. Obviously.

"…Right. That's why you're calling yourself Red Robin now." The hesitation marks surprise in the Hood, and Tim's surprised at himself. He has no idea what he's talking about, but he keeps going. Talking through it, because it needs to be said, and it's the first year they've been on I'm-not-going-out-of-my-way-to-kill-you terms.

He shakes his head. "No, I mean it. I wish Bruce hadn't had to lose a son, I wish Alfred had never had to lose you, and I can't even imagine what a Pit is like. What it does." He levels his eyes with Jason's for just a second before flipping over the railing and landing a few yards in front of him. "I'd be okay trailing behind with a camera."

Jason's head is cocked to the side, like he's trying to decide if he really does mean it. "And you're right, anyway. I'm too much like B to be a good Robin at all. The purpose is to lighten the Dark Knight, not add to the shadow."

There are a good five minutes of silence that pass where they simply regard one another with thoughtful eyes. They both have a point, and it's been a civil conversation thus far, and Tim thinks that they're going to walk away with some sort of new understanding until he realizes how ridiculous that sounds even in his own head.

The next words out of Jason's invisible mouth are "Pity's not going to save you, Babybird," because Bruce never avenged him and he'll be damned if he doesn't avenge this kid and he pulls his little brother closer like he's going to give him a nuggie.

And that's why Tim's standing on the Manor's front porch at three-thirty A.M. with a flannel shirt and jeans pulled over his costume and clutching his now-broken wrist against his chest when Alfred comes to the door, more than a little confused as to why the boy's not come in through the Cave entrances. He thanks God for small mercies when there's no sign of Damian. He agrees to stay the night, but only because Alfred won't make him coffee until morning and his wrist has just been set, which is exhausting in and of itself.

If he sees Bruce in the morning, he thinks he'll get in a word of how he saw his brother, how he didn't look so bad for it being the anniversary of his death. With his head hitting a strangely unfamiliar pillow—when he'd lived here, the only time he ever slept seemed to be during unconsciousness or in his desk chair—he thinks that maybe the small bones in his hand and wrist were broken so he could relay the message as well as remind him that dirty little street rats are sometimes good kids.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Whoops! This one'll be continued. Also, my continuity involves Nightwing's fingerstripes. DEAL WITH IT.**

Jason raises an eyebrow to the fingerstriped costume before him. He's standing firmly—_too firmly, _Jason thinks, _too much like Bruce—_and it's all too easy to see the black band on the upper arm of his costume.

"It's been long enough I actually almost thought you'd gone back the 'Haven," he comments with a smirk, leaning back against the water tower. "What? Time for the bird's rabies shot?"

Dick's eyes narrow in just the way that gets under Jason's skin. And the asshole _know_s it too, he does it on purpose, Jason swears. "I called you," he says in a pinched voice.

"The cell doesn't exist anymore," he dismisses with a wave of his hand.

"_No,_" comes his brother's voice again, even more strained if such a thing could even exist. "I mean, I _called _you." He taps his left ear and the weird band on his arm catches Jason's eye again. He narrows his eyes at the anomaly very pointedly, but shakes his head.

"I don't wear the comm-link anymore," he says, voice dropping to match Dick's mood. _Something was wrong, _and he hadn't tried to kill anyone of them in nearly a year. "There's a reason Alfred's got the forty-eight hour rule for concussions, Goldie. If you got hit on the head you should be sleeping at home, not wandering around the streets," he half-jokes, wholly unprepared to drag Nightwing's ass back to the Manor.

"The funeral was today," Dick cuts in suddenly, shoulders finally slumping, however slightly, and it signifies a helluva lot, because the circus freak has muscles like rubber bands that defy the laws of Physics and nothing weighs him down.

_Mine?_ Jason almost asks. He doesn't understand his first reaction, but thinks that it's only because he knows he's had a funeral, has a familiar mental image of Bruce and Alfred and not many other people standing over his coffin (Dick had been away at college) and he's imagined it a few times at least. His second thought is a simple and resounding _Damian? _Not much logic's required to know why. Damian's Robin, and Robins—especially those with anger-management problems, evidently—seem to have a problem with dying.

A small hum comes from the surface of his chest, so quiet that he's afraid Dick didn't hear him. He doesn't think he can make another sound, let alone open his mouth and speak. Justifying not showing up to the funeral is battling with the blunt fact that it isn't right. He didn't have ties to that family, not anymore, he'd worked so hard to cut them and _cut them all._ There was no reason that he should feel guilty, especially for that little shit. But…he'd be lying if he told anyone that he wasn't hurt when he found out that Dick hadn't gone to his funeral. Sure, they hadn't known each other well, and Dick and Bruce weren't on good terms…but…

"Tim," Dick reveals in a hoarse whisper, breaking through the veil of Jason's thoughts like a pickaxe through ice. Either he'd understood the humming inquiry or had gotten tired of waiting for a response. Since when does Dick use names in the field? Even if the situations bad, _he doesn't._ He hates Tim (hat_ed_, he reminds himself), and he's tried—honest-to-God tried his hardest—to kill the Replacement, but this is different. Because it's not Jason's success, but Bruce's failure that got him killed.And Jason's brain is being pulled into a million different directions so he doesn't even realizes he's spoken until the words are gone:

"What happened?" Because Tim's a genius and not a bad fighter. He even had Ra's al Ghul pushing for him to be his heir. That just doesn't happen because you're weak.

Dick's giving him this look, like he wants to give him a hug or something, to _reach out_, but he thinks better of it and Jason's glad. He's glad because thoughts of crowbars and ripped Kevlar and splinters under his fingernails (there's a reason that's a torture technique, and also a reason Jason's never had the heart to utilize it) in his head and there's the shadow of claustrophobia and the sensation of running out of oxygen underground. More than that though, if Dick were to touch him he thinks he might just revert to the Pit and freak out. What he needs right now is to know. Some part of him that really hates Bruce because his methods are unproductive tells him that what he really needs is to imagine, but he shuts it up. Tells his whole brain to shut the fuck up, because Dick is talking and Jason needs to here so he can know so he can imagine.

"We're not quite sure…" Dick shakes his head, and Jason can see him trying to shake off thoughts of their dead brother just long enough to talk about said dead brother. Jason's lucky he's not close to them. "I mean, we _know_, but not specifics, and God knows Bruce," another name in-costume, Jason notes, "hasn't slept since the news. He was working on some…some plan of his." He shakes his head again, and an incredulous laugh comes with it, but it sounds _wrong. _Not like light-Dick laughter. "He had a fucking reign on everything that was happening, so he was working contingency plans up for anything and everything. The files on that kid's computer…" Another dark chuckle.

"The plans didn't go according to plan?" Jason queries and flinches because _damn, that boy died with some major irony._

"…Yeah."

Jason nods, shoves his hands into his pockets. They get quiet for a few minutes; Dick's grieving and Jason's lost in thought, feeling slightly sick. The Pit's gotten loud, so he doesn't dare open his mouth for fear that it'll start talking instead of him. Finally, he says something he's about…eighty percent sure isn't the Pit. In fact, it sounds like Jason from before.

"Look, Dick…" he starts. Not 'Goldie,' not even 'Nightwing' or 'Fingerstripes.' Dick's eyes snap back from a memory, and it looks painful. And that does it for Jason. "Dick, go back to Bruce," he says, only a little sharply. "I don't think he can really do it twice. The whole losing Robin thing…"

Dick looks taken aback, and it's bizarre to see on Nightwing's controlled face. Jason's not supposed to say those things, it's not like him. He hated Tim. He shouldn't be wishing anyone well, part of him is really pissed off that they would mourn as vigilantes for the fallen as long as it was Red Robin, more than a little offended that Dick was here to grieve for this brother, but… he couldn't hold it against Tim that he was he was cared for. No, he didn't wish that end on anybody.

_Bruce's failure_.

"Jason," he says, voice tighter than ever, and Jason wonders what he was thinking of a moment before. He clears his voice before trying again. "It's time, Little Wing. Come home."

There's a tugging in his heart, at everything in him. But not for the Manor, not for Bruce or anything more than Alfred cookies. A part of him wants to relinquish all responsibility, wants things the way they were _before_, but going back won't change it. He can't live like Bruce wants—demands—and it won't work. It would only remind them both that Tim wasn't there, about failure and all the ways you can't change a person.

"No, Nightwing," he replies, reverting back to business names. "It's really not." Jason kicks off the wall where his body had frozen and walks to the edge of the roof, putting a hand on Dick's padded shoulder as he passes. The black band catches his eye, and he thinks for a moment about asking if Dick has a spare—he's sure he does, sure he's got two on, just in case—but doesn't.

Not yet.

He grapples away, the line's hissing drowning out whatever noise might have been made behind him. If Jason knows anything, he knows where Bruce would have Tim buried, what Tim's will surely said.

It takes nearly a half an hour of numb flying across the Gotham skyline until he reaches the cemetery, shovel in hand that he picked up from a garage on the way. He finds his grave first. Two rows over and five peoples down is Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. Right next to Jack.

Jason stoops next to the freshly-laid sod as he reads the epitaph, some bullshit Bruce had scribbled on the expensive stone. About as meaningful as his own. Looking down, he scoops up some of the moist dirt and wipes a couple of lines across the hood. The dirt's always been pretty here in the rich bastard cemetery, dark enough to be called black, it looked like charcoal. It wasn't a band, but he wasn't a part of the Bat Clan.

Straightening up again and using the shovel as a cane of sorts, he appraises the sight before him that is the Pretender.

"Well, well, well, Alvin Draper,* what have you gotten yourself into this time?" he says to the dead-quiet.

And he starts digging with though thought that _Jesus Christ, this is much easier when you're not in the ground._

***Alvin Draper's one of Tim's aliases. No judging though, Jason's also known as John Doe B) I don't remember the comic (tell me if you do) in which Tim visits Jason in prison and they joke about their terrible taste in names. But it's almost a brotherly moment, so I had to include it.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: So I wrote this before I even knew what was going to happen to the little stinker. Needless to say, it took me a while to write after that. BUT, it's here now, so enjoy please? ImissDamian.**

/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/

Damian Wayne is not a normal child. Born into the League of Assassins, the perfect blend of DNA, a purebred being, if you will. The son of the Goddamn Batman and grandson of the Demon's Head.

But. Like other children, Damian Wayne wakes up early on Saturday mornings with his dog to watch cartoons, which is very pointedly called his 'Character Study.' He must, he tells Grayson, at least participate in the occasional recreational conversation at school to pass as 'normal,' if Father really must insist that he attends. Which he does, he finds, for Father returns on a Thursday, and while he doesn't make Damian go on Friday, he says he expects his return to academia on Monday.

Sundays are Damian's favorite, though. Sundays normally mean sleeping in and waking with Titus' head atop his leg and he wakes up _slowly_, not moving much until Titus is decidedly awake and then they roll out of bed. It's the only day of the week that he descends the stairs in his comfiest pajamas from the long weekend-night patrol, and Grayson's always up before him—which is only acceptable on Sundays. Sometimes they sleep in until noon, but Grayson _always _insists on making brunch for them both. Sometimes the food is exotic, things he learned traveling in Europe with his parents before the Manor, but sometimes it's just thoughtful. Once, Damian remembers, he made pancakes. Initially Damian scoffed, because _even he can make pancakes_, but Grayson made pancakes that covered the whole bottom of the pan, the absolute largest pan in Alfred's culinary arsenal. When he was done with a stack of six pancakes, three each, and they were thin and large and almost squares, but still sort of looked like pancakes. Then he proceeded to fold them up into little dogs, like the towels at a hotel, and decorated them with noses and fluffy tails made of whipped cream.

While Damian and Father definitely did not go out on patrol last night—Batman's been going out alone for the past two nights, simply long enough to see some of their allies and make it known that he's _here—_Damian finds no reason for there not to be brunch today. You see, they're really like breaks for Alfred. Cleverly designed, barely disguised breaks engineered by Dick to let the butler sit back while he cooks. Pennyworth doesn't take days off, which Damian begrudgingly respects, but he thinks it ridiculous that the man would come to the doorway to watch them with that little smile, that quirk of the left side of his lips, really, during his opportunity for rest.

Damian's awake far earlier on this Sunday than most, partly because he stayed in last night, but mostly because of the excited hum running through his body that he only suppresses with the help of his years' worth of assassin training. So rather than jumping from bed and sliding down the banister to the kitchen, he glides across the floor with a deadly grace and stays completely quiet.

Except the kitchen is _empty._ Well, there seems to be a coffee cup and small plate left in the sink. So Father's awake obviously , as Pennyworth would leave dishes in the sink for anything less than doomsday. Father's…eaten already. On a Sunday.

Damian grits his teeth. _Father is not Grayson, _he tells himself sternly. _And Grayson is an emotional sap. Unless…_

His fingernail bite down on the hell of his hands, leaving half crescent marks and his eyes snap shut, because _don't get your hopes up, Wayne. _But maybe Father forgot? He's been _lost in time_ until three days ago. The days of the week could've slipped even the Batman's mind.

He pads away quickly, first to the main study to listen outside the door. Nobody there. The Cave, then. He must be catching up on Batman Inc. business. Damian next takes a trip to an upper cavern of the Cave, where only some bats reside and the guano is at a minimum.

Batman is sitting at the main computer console. But more importantly, he's working on reports. _Entering dates _on reports. Damian really doesn't want to sit here anymore in his pajamas in bat-mess, so he retreats to the stairs and enters through the stairs.

Father turns around before he's reached the stairs. It's such an unusual thing that Damian realizes _he's not even busy._

"Damian," he says, shock leaking into his voice and creases almost appearing by his eyes. "Is everything okay?" Damian quirks an eyebrow. "Did you—have a bad dream?"

_And…._he's still in his 'comfiest pajamas.' In the Cave. On a Sunday morning while Father's working. He's never wanted to smack himself in the face so badly.

"-tt-" he rolled his eyes now. "Don't be absurd, Father." His voice lacks a certain dominance, he notes, when he's standing barefoot on the stone floor. He steps forward under the scrutiny of the Batman's gaze, just into sight of the monitor.

"Working on anything interesting?" he asks instead.

"Nothing you haven't already experienced. It's all from my absence."

Damian takes a small step forward, and if it were Dick he'd take the cue and snatch him into a suffocating hug and then Damian as he resists. _But it's Father._ And so Damian takes a step forward, a small one, and stares at the console's display as he speaks.

"Father…" he clears his throat and locks his eyes onto Father's—something that Dick had informed him was important to convey sincerity. "While Grayson and I thought you to be deceased, I'm relieved to have you back to fulfill your mantle and leave Nightwing to his." Instead of being pleased or satisfied with the statement (which is strange, he thinks, since Grayson would've devoured such pathetic commentary with a stupid grin) he looks absolutely concerned. He's about to interject too, Damian can see, but he's not done talking, so he cuts in again.

"But. Will Grayson be coming back to the Manor?" His eyes flash and he forces his shoulders to relax; for God's sake, he's talking to the _Batman_. "I mean, he didn't particularly come around before your so-called-passing, and I believe your servant distresses too long away from him."

And for some reason Bruce looks relieved _now_ and, unbeknownst to Damian, he's hiding a smile with some great effort. He rolls his chair back to its original position, resumes reading.

"He comes and goes as he wishes. Dick's a grown man," he chides lightly. "If you think he should visit you need to tell him."

Damian grits his teeth and storms off with a frustrated clicking noise. That was _not _helpful. He was simply inquiring for information; the least he could do was provide it, even if the man can't make pancakes.

Upstairs, Pennyworth is in the kitchen, or else Damian would show them that even he can make pancakes, prove his father's laziness. But he doesn't. Alfred's simply tidying things, just putting away Father's dishes when Damian reenters, and he looks—well, not _young._ But not quite as old and haunted as he had. It kept stunning him into almost-stillness. He recovers, confirms that _of course he's already eaten and no, he does not require breakfast be made for him. _Alfred's face doesn't change, stays stoically polite, but the twinkle in his eye confirms that he knows. More than that, he understands how Damian feels without him mentioning a word of it.

He hurries off with hot ears, up to his room. Understanding isn't what he needs. Damian sits in front of his laptop—the one that Dick helped him pick out—and thinks. And thinks. Since it doesn't seem to be doing him any good, he hangs from the ceiling and thinks, sticking the Velcroed bottom of his laptop to the corresponding Velcro next to his light fixture. Thinking doesn't seem to be working, no matter the quality or quantity of blood flow to his brain, so he simply types.

_Dear Grayson,_

_Please return home at once. Your petty skirmishes with Father are meaningless to me, and I worry his mental state has diminished being lost in time—_

Except that Dick would only give a warning to the JLA if he thought Batman was a real danger. Brows creasing, Damian hits the backspace. And, anyway, Father is completely competent.

_Dear Grayson,_

_Father does not understand the value of routine, nor the health benefits that you insist accompany sleeping in once a week. He eats like Drake, in front of the Bat-computer, always reading—_

He deletes the whole thing again, simply because _you can't say 'Bat-computer' in a civilian computer message._

_Grayson,_

_This is an inquiry to purpose that you return to Gotham once a week. Father has much to catch up on and will be otherwise occupied during his free time. Your presence is requested for sparring and further training exercises. Saturday nights would be preferable, considering your work schedule and Father insisting upon my homework's completion on Friday evening. I will see to it that Pennyworth has your room open and ready if we happen to train late._

_Damian._

Damian hits 'send' with slightly trembling fingers, but he chalks that up to hanging upside down for half an hour.


End file.
